Love
by SignsofSam
Summary: And in that moment, any reservations Daniel may have had over Kurt—it's too soon, he's too…much, it's only puppy love—flew out of his mind, because Kurt had given his son the one thing he had yearned, the one thing missing for years.


**Title:** Love

**Author: **S.N. Brown

**Disclaimer: **I do not own. Ryan Murphy does. Sigh.

**Words: **~940

**Author's Note:** Please review! Also, this is in the same verse as _Acceptance _and _Wait_.

**Love**

There was an alcove in off the foyer of the Anderson house where they kept the piano, and that was where Daniel found Blaine when he got home that afternoon, sitting at the piano, staring at the keys, hands poised but not touching the ivory. "Everything okay?" he asked his son, setting his bag down in the archway.

"I told Kurt I loved him today," Blaine whispered, looking up at him. "I told Kurt I loved him."

Daniel was quiet, watching his son's fingers flex before they touched the keys, a soothing lullaby coming out. He instantly recognized the song, a song Julia sang to Blaine as a baby and toddler when he was being fussy around his bedtime. She would rock him in the glider in the nursery, one finger running down his temple and cheek, or trailing softly through his hair, and sing.

The last time Blaine had told anyone he loved them, he was eleven, sitting at the bottom of the circular staircase in the foyer, watching his mother as she walked out the door, as she chose the booze over him for the final time. Daniel watched from the same alcove he stood in now, watched as his son struggled to not let the tears slip,

Julia had always had a problem with alcohol. When she was pregnant with Blaine, it was hard to get her to stop drinking, but she did it, for the sake of the baby. Two nights after they brought Blaine home, Daniel found her at the liquor cabinet, rifling through it until she found her favorite vodka. It had always been an issue, but never a problem.

When Blaine was two, Daniel came home to find his wife passed out on the couch and their toddler wondering around aimlessly, bruises already setting in on his legs from where he had bumped into the sharp corner of the coffee table. Daniel picked up his son, smiling broadly at him, ruffling his hair, and stared at his wife. The half-empty bottle of Grey Goose was slightly tipped on the ground, threatening to fall, and Daniel knew that she had drunk the missing contents that day.

That was when the issue became a problem.

When Blaine was six, Daniel finally persuaded his wife to enter a rehab facility.

She stayed for four days, and Daniel let her come back home.

There was another attempt when Blaine was seven, another when he was nine. None lasted more than two weeks, and when she came back, Julia hit the bottle harder than ever.

It was hard watching his wife fall farther and farther into that deep, dark hole, not able to claw her way out. It was even harder watching his son, knowing that Blaine knew something was wrong with his mother, that she wasn't normal, but not being able to say anything to help her.

The final straw came two weeks before the scene in the foyer. Daniel was in New York for a business meeting. He didn't like leaving Blaine with Julia, but the meeting was unavoidable, and his sister agreed to check on Julia every day. Blaine knew not to go anywhere with her, and Daniel had promised him that he would be back as soon as humanly possible.

That was the day Blaine got in a pretty bad fight at school and needed to be picked up. Julia drove drunk to the school, stumbled inside to collect her son, and managed to hit another car and get the Jag wrapped around a pole.

Daniel had flown back immediately, but it was still hours before he got to the hospital, spoke to the police (yes, I know my wife has a problem; she wasn't supposed to be driving, and she most certainly wasn't supposed to have Blaine with her; no, I would never have left Blaine alone like that). He sat in the hard plastic chair of the waiting room, watched the clock tick (but the seconds, minutes, hours never passed quickly enough), and made plans about what to do before he was finally called into the ER, to his son's cubicle.

Blaine whimpered in pain when Daniel touched his shoulder, trying desperately to curl onto his side, his broken arm preventing his from twisting too much. "Sssh, bud," he whispered, running a hand down the boy's back, snatching it away when Blaine cried out in pain as the finger trailed down a huge bruise.

Two days later, when Daniel brought Blaine home, he gave his wife an ultimatum: either get sober, or get out.

And that led to Blaine sitting on the steps, watching his mother clutch her travel bag, and a final, ragged plea, "Please, Mama, I love you. Don't leave."

Julia gave her son a small smile, looked at him over the edge of her sunglasses, and walked out the door anyway.

The song stopped; Blaine's voice was soft as he whispered, "Dad?"

Daniel blinked several times, until he was staring at his teenager, and not the eleven-year-old version, arm in a sling, face bruised and dejected. "You told Kurt you loved him?"

Blaine nodded, the song starting again. "And he said it back."

And in that moment, any reservations Daniel may have had over Kurt—it's too soon, he's too…much, it's only puppy love—flew out of his mind, because Kurt Hummel had given his son the one thing he had yearned, the one thing missing for years since Julia had walked out the door.

Kurt said 'I love you' back.


End file.
